


The Smell of Home

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer Arc, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 22:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19159879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: For the @xfficchallenges prompt 9:   She just wanted to feel safe, just for a little while.Also addressing this little nugget from @wtfmulder ‘anyone ever written a fic bout Mulder actually stealing a get well bouquet from a guy with a broken leg?’Angsty.





	The Smell of Home

The call wrenches open his chest; each word prises open a rib and the faint crack in her voice as she asks him to come to oncology, pushes his heart to his throat. It tastes as bitter as the word – on-fucking-cology. It throbs in his mouth and constricts his breathing, blocks all rational thought, as he collects his car keys, his wallet, his gun. He wants to fucking kill somebody. Anybody. He opens the door. Shuts it again. Going out, means acceptance. Staying, staying might make hope stretch and fill the crevices in his shredded heart. He leans his forehead against the hard timber, squeezes his eyes so tight that bright lights bounce behind the lids. Like he can see into his own mind. See the void ahead.

“Fuck,” he says, yanking open the door and strides to his car.

The thing about receiving a call like that, a call that fills you with cold dread, is that you can actually feel it eating you alive. The words, the crackle of static on the line, the holding of breath, the awkward pas-de-deux of who says goodbye, who hangs up first, the fist of fear tangling your guts, the woozy feeling that leaves you light-headed and heavy-limbed, then the slither of a forked tongue, the jagged edges of teeth, nipping, gnawing, chewing on your resolve. Gutting is the right descriptor. He’s on a line, being pulled from icy water, facing the knife of losing Scully.

The hospital doors let him in, as though in welcome. Lets him walk right in, come in! come visit! ask at reception! visit the gift shop! The aroma of mixed bouquets is overpowering. He rubs the tip of his nose with the back of his fingers. He’s trembling. He stops, takes a breath. They’ve been here before, fought back, dragged their lives from the grip of death. They can do it again, they will. They have to.

There’s a bunch of white chrysanthemums, wrapped in purple tissue paper, yellow eyes soft like brushed velvet. Before Samantha disappeared, his mother favoured them, grew them in various colours, cut them and showed them in her fancy crystal vases. The edges of the petals would brown and crinkle after a week, some would drop and he would pick them up, rubbing them in his palms until they either rolled into tight tubes or tore open, sticking to his skin. The smell would linger for hours. The smell of his mother. Of home.

He picks up the bunch, goes to pay, but there’s a line. He stuffs them back on the rack and he hears them thud to the floor as he heads towards the desk. He imagines petals scattering across the grey carpet tiles. Flowers weeping.

On his way through the winding corridors he reads the signs: maternity, day procedures, rehabilitation. Reflecting the hopeful, the promise of future, of recovery. His stomach burns with ice and his heart is in his mouth again. There are a few wards with open doors and a family is bunching at one, jostling and swapping positions at the bedside of an older man, who is propped up on stiff pillows, looking mildly bewildered. A small child backs into Mulder, elbow to gut and sneakered feet trampling his own shoes.

The mother grabs the kid. “Jake, out the way, buddy.” She looks at Mulder. “Go sit on the end of Grandpa’s bed. You can write on the cast.” She ushers the boy in to the room. “Sorry!”

He dips his head, tries to work out how to squeeze past without looking like a complete asshole barging his way through a happy crowd. He takes a step this way, then that, each time facing a block of bodies. His body is pressed against a door, handle digging into his back. Chatter rising, laughing and normality surrounding him.

“Visiting your wife?” The woman asks, looking over at the maternity ward sign beside him.

He can’t think, can’t form any words.

“Congratulations! You look terrified. Must be your first.” She stuffs a bunch of flowers into his hands. “He’s already got enough to rival the florists.” She looks back over her shoulder and grins. “And to be frank, he’s a grumpy old man who won’t appreciate them anyway. Take them. And tell your wife she’s amazing.”

He nods.

Scully is forthright, blunt, detached, arms folded across her body, protecting her heart.

“I don’t accept that. Th..there must be some people who have received treatment for this, we..can….

“Yes there are.”

That’s when she breaks, he can sense it. That’s when her resolve gives. The moment she concedes she might get help, need help. That’s so Scully. And that’s when he realises the extent of his own selfish entitlement. He doesn’t want her to die. She can’t die. Because it will ruin him. What a fucking pathetic excuse for a man, a partner. She falls into him, wraps her arms tight around him, squeezing life back into his heart. It beats a little stronger.

“Sorry,” she whispers and he pulls her closer, desperate to feel the life in her against his own chest. His nose fills with the scent of the flowers. He remembers the crushed crysanthemum petals in his palms, the sweet smell of home. Scully is home. She just wants to feel safe. Just for a little while.

He can do that.


End file.
